No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

aWolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

aBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

aNor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

aaYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

aFor shade to shade will come too drowsily,

aaAnd drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

aSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

aAnd hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

aOr on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

aaOr on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

aEmprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

aaAnd feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;

aAnd Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

aTurning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

aVeil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

aaThough seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

aHis soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

aaAnd be among her cloudy trophies hung.